How It Feels to be Weightless
by borderline-nostalgia
Summary: AU- "Harry couldn't hear him, though. With his eyes focused vacantly on the motes of dust spiraling around the room, he wondered how it felt to be weightless." He's never known what it feels like to be whole. Rated M for dark thoughts/mentions of suicide.
1. The Reason For Living

**Happy New Year to everybody. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

In truth, Harry never thought he'd have to sit alone on the tiled floor thinking again why people weren't sick of him yet.

But he did.

His bare body trembled mercilessly against the cold floor, the tile hugging his shoulder blades as he stared up at the ceiling. His legs pulled up to his chest, and he put his head in his hands. Harry barely noticed that his fingers were quivering so violently they shook against his cheeks with small, slapping sounds. He sucked air in through his clenched teeth. The ache he'd grown to accept was growing through his torso and into his head.

_Pain_.

But somehow it was okay. Pain was a normal feeling. Healthy every once in a while. It was better than nothing. Nothing made him feel hollow, and that's certainly not what he _should_ feel the night he defeated Voldemort. The pain filled up his empty shell of emotion and, in more ways than not, replicated his old self – that is if his old self was ever real at all.

Harry couldn't tell you how he expected defeating Voldemort to feel, nor how he wanted it to, but he knew that emptiness he felt was not the correct emotion, and the waves of confusion that crashed over him were so overwhelming Harry felt he couldn't breathe, and the air he could conjure came out in tiny, sputtered coughs. It took him a moment to realize that he was at long last sobbing – so furiously, actually, that his face was hot and reddening. It's not like that mattered, though. There was no one around.

_I need to talk to someone_, he thought_, I need Sirius – no, Sirius is dead. I need Remus – no, he died a few hours ago. Dumbledore? Obviously not. _

He could have thought about his father. He could have thought about how amazing it would have been to share a few lines with him at that very moment, tell him of everything he did to avenge them. Harry could have been selfless and have a night thinking about his parents, but he didn't want to. There was nothing great about having a son who feels hollow and selfless on a night that he defeated his parents' murders. Had everything he done been solidly based on Voldemort? Had Harry _actually_ been controlled around _Voldemort's_ schedule?

The house was cold, and broken, and withering, and to top it all off Harry didn't even know whose house it was. It filled the niche it needed to, though. It made him feel surrounded, which is all he wanted.

_I should have died tonight. It would have been better_.

Harry stretched his legs in front of him, clad in dark wash jeans that were ripped and torn in several places. Dried up blood oozed from several cuts on his legs and arms. He hadn't even bothered to shower. He just ran from the castle without looking back – no that's a lie. He did look back. He looked back several times at the shattered building because he deserved to see what he'd done and everything he'd caused. It was his fault, after all.

He'd found this old building in only a few hours, far enough away to feel completely out of it yet close enough to know that your past never really leaves you.

Moonlight drifted through a splintered window, illuminating a streak on the floor so Harry could see his scared body before him. His fingertips just grazed the burn mark on his chest where the locket had rested over his heart. _You're a scarred boy, Harry, _said a voice, and though he didn't know who the voice belonged to, Harry knew it spoke truth. The unrecognizable voice didn't speak again despite the numb feeling that made him feel like it was always there, the voice of reason. That must have been it. There was no other explanation.

-.-.-.-

The light was too much; the light was too goddamned much. Harry would have narrowed his eyes against the pressure, but he knew that if he were to close them he would have gone unconscious right then and there. Something about sleeping at a memorial did not seem respectful.

Ginny sat next to him, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs as if she were hugging herself. Her face was puffy, and she looked up at Harry with eyes that overtly said that she wanted – no, _needed_ – someone to hold her. Harry just looked away.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Ron asked.

_Do I look okay? Last night I was murdered by the person who killed my parents, but I was selfish enough to live some more. Also, everyone I know is dead, and now you want me blind with these goddamned lights. Sod off._

Harry blinked some more and mumbled something like, "Yeah. Fine."

Ron looked away, his arm slung lazily around Hermione, who wouldn't let the subject drop.

"Where were you last night?" she muttered.

Harry rolled his neck as if to get out a kink and replied, "Out." His tone implied that the conversation was over.

Arthur heaved a sigh from across the room and said, "My son Fred was a very lively man. He liked to laugh, and he liked to joke, but I think making people smile was his number one motivator. Fred was loud and obnoxious sometimes, but he knew when to draw the line. He knew when the time to be crazy was and when it was time to be loyal. Fred knew when to fight.

"He's the kind of kid you'd expect to have grown up and fallen in love, maybe even start a family of his own and continue with his business, but he unfairly got none of a chance.

"My son Fred was a smart man, and I know he's making the other's we lost smile somewhere out there." Mr. Weasley raised his glass and sighed heavily, "To Fred Weasley."

They all lifted our glasses in honor and repeated the words. Harry mumbled the words late and ended trailing off awkwardly silent.

Harry's hands itched as George took the spotlight and continued about his brother. He didn't want to be here surrounded by the people who had lost. He didn't want to be closed in with the heavy feeling of whatever it was. When George left the stage Harry sat up, earning a few looks.

"Where are you going? Harry!"

Harry didn't bother to find out who'd spoken; he kept moving. The emotions he was having were pushing its way through his veins again, and looking back he knew there was nothing he could do to stop them. However, running away was a promising secondary option. Harry was great at running away.

_At least now I can't say I feel empty_.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Harry whirled around to find the small, heart-shaped face of his former girlfriend staring back at him. Ginny looked relatively the same as she had in his sixth year: same flaming – almost orange – red hair, same chocolate brown eyes, but there was something off in the way she held her jaw, or maybe it was the arc of her neck becoming a tad less gracefully held than it once had been. All the same, Ginny was crying. Harry had never seen Ginny cry. Like, not since her first year.

It suddenly seemed so long ago that she sat in his arms studying for her owls, laughing as he told the trio about Harry's dragon tattoo that may or may not have existed. Had it really been this broken, fragile girl crying in front of him that had stolen the sword if Godric Gryffindor or fought in the Battle of Hogwarts?

_Oh, what a year could do to a soul._

"Where...?"

She wanted to know where he'd been, but there was no way he could tell her he'd been staying in that old, abandoned tenement. "Nowhere," Harry replied all too bitterly and turned on his heel.

She grabbed his arm again, and there it was in her face: the old Ginny flare that he knew. Without thought, Harry took Ginny – his Ginny – into his arms and kissed her so hard it was if he were trying to tell her, with his mouth against hers, all the things he wanted to say, but hadn't the faintest idea how.

_I love you. I've always loved you. I'm so sorry, but who would forgive the person reasonable for so many deaths?_

Who could forgive the person reasonable for her _brother's_?

She broke the kiss first, so abrupt Harry just looked at her for a moment.

"Where is this going?" she whispered.

"I really don't want to think of the future right now."

Her face was hurt, but that was to be expected.

In a rush, Harry added, "-but you know I love you, right? You know I always have?"

If anything that only made her look all the more miserable. _Who is this person?_

Ginny began to cry again.

_This can't be happening. No. I refuse._

"Ginny – I – "

"What's going on in here?" It was Ron, his face nearly as red as his hair. In truth Harry thought it nice to see Ron again after the Battle. He'd cleaned up for the memorial, unlike Harry, and was wearing a Weasley Sweater that hung loose off his skinny body, even more frail than usual since their camping trip.

It must have been a strange scene to walk into, his sister sobbing and wrapped provocatively around his best friend's body, secluded in the kitchen not feet away from the rest of the guests. Neither Harry nor Ginny let go.

"Ron, where's Hermione?" Ginny asked, her voice cracked but somehow strong in timbre.

"Never you mind where Hermione is," he said, his eyes narrowed. "Why aren't you guys at the service?"

"I actually had to go," Harry said, dropping his arms from Ginny and patting Ron supportively on the back. "I'll see you guys…. Soon."

"Meet me at the coffee house tomorrow, Harry. Please."

Harry responded to Ginny with a single, curt nod rather than his desired answer, and kept walking.

As he passed Ron murmured, "You should be happy to be alive after what happened in the Battle."

Harry's voice went frozen. Cold and unusable. He couldn't chop the ice into little broken fragments of words to form the correct comeback, but he tried. "No" was all of his response.

-.-.-.-

"_I understand!" Sirius yelled, his voice echoing through the old confines of Grimmauld Place. It was nearly shocking that the portraits didn't wake._

_But Harry wouldn't listen. "You don't." His voice was shaking but somehow solid, as if he knew what he were saying was absolutely true. The chair underneath him screeched as Harry pushed it back and got to his feet._

_Sirius inched forward at Harry's action. "You think I want to walk upstairs and find my Godson dead in his room? You think I want to worry about how many hours I have left with you? Harry!"_

_Harry's hands came together, his fingers brushing the scar on his hand. _I must not tell lies.

"_Who said I want to be dead? I don't want to die, Sirius, you prat. Don't ever think for a moment I want to die. I can think of everyone who has sacrificed their lives for this, and I can think about my parents, and I can think about Cedric Diggory – how they're always in a better place than I am right now. I can think about heaven and hell, and know I'm going to the latter, but _please _don't think I want to die."_

"_But – But Ron said that you… You told him! You told Ron last year you wanted to die! That you couldn't take it! Harry, don't lie to me. Tell me now. Have you ever…attempted suicide?"_

"_I never said I wanted to die," Harry responded shortly. There was no way they were having this conversation. It was all a dream. He wanted to scream at Sirius, to push him away and yell that it was none of his business how he felt._

_Sirius was next to him then, hand on either side of Harry's face so lightly it was as if he wasn't there at all, making it easier to pretend it was some fallacy of his head. "Then why would he say something like that?"_

"_I don't want to die, Sirius. Sometimes I just don't see the point in living. That's all."_

"_So you wouldn't…?"_

_Harry jerked his head away. "I don't know, Sirius. Sometimes I just don't know." Harry was gone, running out the door of the kitchen, up the stairs, through the halls and into his room, slamming the door behind him and sinking to the ground. His back slammed against the wooden frame, but the pain subsided eventually. _

_He could hear Sirius behind him, pushing on the door and using spells to unlock it, but he couldn't release something that wasn't locked, just guarded – a muggle feat that a pureblood like Sirius sometimes didn't understand._

"_You're only fifteen, Harry! Don't do this!"_

_Harry couldn't hear him though. With his eyes focused vacantly on the motes of dust spiraling around the room, he wondered how it felt to be weightless._


	2. I Can't Breathe

**Whoo. Chapter Two. Thanks to Waterwaves27and lolshipwreck for the reviews. They were wonderful.**

**Disclaimer: I, most grievously, do not own Harry Potter.**

**Warning: Language and confusion. I added a part with Ginny's point of view. And I would also like to point out that this is "AU" and that the italics are flashbacks.**

Harry woke the next morning unsurprisingly bored. His toes curled, and his arms stretched out in front of him. Harry looked around. The walls of the tenement were a pale gold that he hadn't noticed before. He wandered the area, turning faucets on to find they didn't work and stepping on creaking floorboards. Harry knew well that the old house was completely broken and abandoned. For some reason, he loved it.

-,-,-,-

Ginny looked considerably more secure when Harry went to meet her later that day. Almost like her old self, he couldn't help but notice, his cheeks flushing a stale pink.

"You look nice," she told him.

Harry shrugged dismissively. He'd showered at an old travel lodge room and put on a new shirt, but the scars on his body were only starting to heal; as long as they remained nothing was truly changing.

"You look…" he couldn't think of an appropriate word. "…great."

Ginny grinned and punched him playfully in the arm that not only hurt but convinced him she was alright again, or at least nearly.

"So, I'm not going to be vague about this, Harry Potter. That way there is no 'read-in-between-the-line' bullshit or empty stares. Did you or did you not find some veela to help you get – "

Knowing very well where the conversation was headed, Harry blurted, "Ginny—fucking—Weasley. You are the same ridiculously quixotic girl I fell for; my feelings _for you_ have not changed at all, and I do not plan on leaving."

Ginny, with a satisfied look on her face, took Harry by the scruff of his fringe to bring his lips closer to hers. The kiss was not like yesterdays – that one had been desperation driven, but this one felt… right. His lips were chapped and swollen, but they molded to hers perfectly enough to make him think that _maybe_ things were changing after all.

"You've gotten your colorful vocabulary from hanging around Ron and Hermione, haven't you?"

Harry cracked what anyone could have sworn was a smile.

-,-,-,-

The Burrow had never been brighter. Every nook and cranny had been cleaned out; every thing-a-majig had been polished. Mrs. Weasley, who looked better but still sad, had put on a fancy dress and twirled around the living room for the family's judgment.

"How does it look?" The fabric shimmered against the lights in such a pristine fashion Harry knew that the dress was not only stunning, but also expensive.

"Is this her idea of a midlife crisis?" Ron said to Harry in a very audible whisper, "She's been cleaning like a madwoman and now this?"

Mrs. Weasley stopped twirling to pick up the box she'd taken the outfit from, pretending not to hear Ron's snide comment

Hermione walked in then, her hair tied back in a pony tail. She went immediately for Ron, who put his arm around her, and then leaned over to acknowledge Harry.

"How are _you_?"

"Peachy," Harry replied all-too pleasantly. It was a lie, of course. He didn't feel sad anymore; it was weariness more than anything, but weariness was inevitable when sleeping where he'd been.

At night he swore to hear nameless voices, ones that could have been the voice of reason, or the voice of ghosts, or maybe even his own whimpering, but all in all it didn't really matter, because eventually it was all going to be over. When he died thirty, forty, maybe even fifty years from that point it wouldn't matter if he was sad or if he saved the world or cured Hunger. In reality everyone entered in the same way and left in the same way, and after all tallies have been marked and all laces have been tied up there was no way to tell Hermione from Molly, Ron from Fred, or even Harry from Voldemort. In the end, everyone dies, and Harry should have realized it earlier.

-,-,-,-

"I shouldn't have come."

"Fuck you, Harry. Of course you had to come."

"I really don't want to be here, Ron."

"Look, mate. You're my best friend, and I know you're sad, but we're all dealing with stuff right now – you the most. That's why we're here. I'm not going to ask you where you've been sleeping the last few nights, or what you were doing with my sister the day of the memorial, or anything. The only thing I want from you is a goddamned smile and some fun. It's all for you."

That was it. Harry couldn't leave with Ron looking at him like that. Ron had always had sad eyes, but they'd never been so dominant. Hermione was gravitating suspiciously around the door as if she were scared Harry was going to make a run for it, and Neville eyed him expectantly from the other side. They were watching.

_So it's true. This _is_ all for me._

"Then… fine. I appreciate it, man. Thank you."

Ron looked at him. His sad eyes were screaming so loud Harry could have heard them: "Fucking. Bullshit."

But Harry did appreciate it. Not the party, the opportunity to get drunk, or the fact that they'd booked the entire club for a one night drama-fest, but their care. You don't know many people who'll force you to be happy despite what your own wishes, but somehow he'd managed to find them.

There were students everywhere, but Harry couldn't make out their faces in the dimmed lights. He didn't even know where he was, but he knew they the guests _liked_ him. They patted his back and gave him drinks, though he refused. Didn't they see what had happened? Hadn't they been there gathered in the room of bodies, watching the corpses of their loved ones? Weren't you supposed to grieve every once in a while instead of partying? The flashing lights of the club seemed to say otherwise, but in a way, their joy seemed to diminish whatever was left of his. Idly, he was left wondering if people coped in different ways.

Without looking, a man brushed up against his side. Harry was about to apologize when the man – more like figure – held out his hand: a simple gesture, yet Harry was still left wondering if he'd shaken it too hard or not hard enough.

"Sorry," the figure said, and Harry was mildly surprised to see it was not too deep. This "man" was no more than a mangy teenager from Hogwarts. "I'm – bloody hell, are you…?"

"No," said Harry flatly. The last thing he wanted was to talk.

Trying to catch another glance in the artificial light, the figure sighed. "Oh, well, I'm sorry just the same. Great party?"

Harry simply walked away, and another figure behind the bar called out his name.

_How does he know me? Why does everyone here want to _chat_?_

Almost immediately after closing in on him, Harry could tell it was Dean. He had the same devilish smile and side-swept black hair as he did the day they were sorted.

_Dean. The bloke_.

"You are my girlfriend's ex," Harry almost said, but bit his tongue. There was so much he wanted to say to Dean at that moment, so much he wanted to ask, but they were all rude or wrong. It wasn't Dean Harry was mad at.

"Harry, mate, what's going on?" Dean was quite obviously drunk. His breath reeked of liquor and bad choices, but the smell was alluring in a way, distracting.

"What are you drinking?" Harry asked.

Dean didn't reply; he poured a bottle of clear liquid into as plastic red cup and shot it Harry's way. Without hesitation, Harry took it, wanting to feel the distraction he'd smelt on Dean's breath.

His throat burned. "Firewhiskey."

"So you've had it before!" Dean rumbled. He seemed almost bigger… beefier in the flashing color lights. He cracked his knuckles.

"Get me some more," Harry demanded, and Dean obliged.

-,-,-,-

"_How did you know I was here?"_

_Sirius laughed quietly at Harry's question and sat next to him on the ground. "I came here when I was a teenager. There is something comforting about an attic to me. I figured…"_

_Sirius eyed the lit cigarette dangling from Harry's mouth but didn't say anything. Sirius smoked all the time, even more when he was stressed. It was not his area to judge._

"_Dumbledore's avoiding me."_

"_Dumbledore's avoiding everyone, Harry. Sometimes we don't get along with people."_

"_You're one to talk," Harry snorted, taking the cigarette from his lips and holding it. He casually blew the smoke from his mouth and watched as it drifted out the open window._

_Sirius smirked. "It's not me you're angry at, Harry."_

"_You don't know that."_

"_But I do."_

_Gritting his teeth, Harry replied. "You don't know how this feels!"_

"_Like you can't breathe?" Sirius guessed improbably correct, and Harry grimaced, holding back resentful, bitter words._

"_That's nothing new."_

"_Maybe," said Sirius slowly, "it's from the cigarettes. They have a tendency for clogging your lungs." He took Harry's and put it out on the ash tray. "James would have killed me if he found out I was letting you smoke."_

_Harry closed his eyes and rubbed him temples._

"_They make you jumpy, don't they?"_

"_This isn't about the cigarettes, Sirius!"_

"_Why don't you ever tell me what's on your mind?" he asked quietly._

_Harry leaned back with a harrumph, pressing his back against the bare wood floor. Sirius just turned around to face him. His Godfather's breath came out in rushed puffs, as if _he _couldn't breathe in and out himself. His hands were warm as they took Harry's shoulder, hot grief baking off his skin. Harry recoiled at the raven haired man's touch and ebbed away._

"_I'm not going to give this up."_

"_Then you're going to be here for a while."_

-,-,-,-

"Harry? Harry what are you doing?"

Harry's eyes were bloodshot, scary almost, and Ginny withdrew at the sight. In the flashes of the club, his face lit up in overlapping streaks, and his otherwise unsuspecting silhouette hid in the darkness.

_No,_ she thought,_ Harry doesn't drink. Not Harry, too. I told Ron not to put in the bar!_

"What happened?" she demanded, fingers trembling as she attempted to grab his hands. She missed.

"Stop it, Ginny."

"No! Tell me, you sodding dolt!" Her voice cracked, but Harry couldn't possibly know the reason behind it. There was no way he was going to end up like Dean, all those screaming fights and just-missing fists pounded against cement. She could still hear the slams of her skull against drywall.

"I had a drink or two, Gin, just stop! Stop touching me! Stop pushing me!"

But Ginny couldn't help it. She'd never told him, but somehow she felt Harry should know already. He should have realized it from all those times she came into a room with a black eye or bruises on her arms. Concealer and powder weren't miracle workers. _Someone _must have known. It's all she ever really wanted.

"Ginny? Ginny!" It was Hermione, and she was coming for her. "Ginny stop crying—Ginny!

_I shouldn't be acting like this_, Ginny thought, _I've never had a problem with seeing other people drunk. I've never had a problem with drinking myself. Stop being such a tosser._

"What's going on?" Harry slurred; he stumbled forward, but that only made Ginny even worse. She's seen that stumble, seen the blank stares of an intoxicated man turn into fist rages and holes in her façade. Harry only meant it as a reassuring gesture. Ginny couldn't help but think it different. She sobbed harder.

By that time several people had turned to stare at her, some drunk and some actually curious. She couldn't stand to look at any of them. There was a reason she didn't party anymore.

Hermione had cool arms, and Ginny couldn't help but feel a bit better as she hugged her.

"C'mon," Hermione sniffed, taking Ginny's hand and dragging her out through the crowd. "Ron! You take Harry."

Ginny looked back at Harry one last time. There was one long scratch on his face going from his temple to his collar bone. She ached to ask what happened and help him. Harry's expression was calm and tired, but his eyes yelled a different story.

"I need to leave," Ginny whispered. "I need to go tell you something, Mione."

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	3. An Evasive Hangover

**Hello. Chapter Three for you. I appreciate all the reviews, so thank you!**

**Discalimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Obviously.**

_At age fifteen, Harry knew more about death than the average teenager. When he closed his eyes, he could picture many different things at once: broken headstones; the skin of a monster so tight it stretched thinly over bare bone; the sound of a curse that kills..._

_However, he could also picture people: Cedric Diggory in the cemetery; Quirrell; his father laughing at an unheard joke and his mother crooning to her baby through full, red-stained lips._

_Harry knew a lot about death, and Sirius knew this, but no one, not even Harry, could deny that he knew more about sadness than any other subject._

_Sirius had tried to comfort Harry, extending a hand, but his bravado had left him alone, and there was no way he could lie to his Godson, saying that everything was going to be alright when it wasn't. That would only be cruel, given the circumstances._

_Sirius looked down to see Harry shaking violently against the walls; his head was in his hands, and at first, Sirius thought he'd done something terribly wrong - that he'd said something terribly wrong - but through the gap in Harry's finger there were hot, sticky tears running down his face, and Sirius knew. This wasn't because of him. This was Harry doing something Sirius had wanted him to do all along. This was Harry letting himself feel. Then why did it hurt so much to watch?_

-.-.-.-  
>"Ginny..." Harry moaned, but it was muffled. Cold hands grabbed his wrists, and he was dragged. For a moment, Harry was terrified. These hands were not the calloused, yet somehow slender, hands of his Ginny - these hands were harder, larger, but almost familiar in a way.<p>

"Ginny..." he moaned again, and unexpectedly there was cool air that rested lovingly in the nape of his neck, tickling his ears and ruffling his already ruffled hair. He shivered.

"Heavy arse," complained the man, and somewhere in the intoxicated subconscious of Harry's brain, he picked up the tremor of Ron's voice.

He could smell it then, the slightly suffocating smell of cigarette smoke that laced itself with the knot blocking his windpipe. Very nearly, Harry almost called out Sirius's name. He was close to his Godfather that the thoughts warped themselves into something _warm_ - he was dreaming slightly once more, images of rain hammering down and family nights spent in the dingy house of Grimmauld Place. Harry was almost unconscious to have the short, yet satisfying, pleasure of another memory when Ron's voice recoiled him awake once more.

"HARRY POTTER, GET YOUR HEAVY ARSE OFF THIS CONCRETE; I'M NOT CARRYING YOU HOME."

He swore loudly and sat up.

"Where's Ginny?"

"Who knows? Probably off with Mione somewhere, trying to settle her panic attacks. I've never seen her get so worked up over seeing someone drunk before. Don't you remember all those times we went to the Ravenclaw parties before? She was the girl of the night." Ron looked as though he didn't enjoy that prospect.

"Ron... I'm sloshed. Please don't talk so quickly."

"You were drunk faster than I've ever seen before. What were you drinking, mate?"

Harry ignored the question. "Damn! I fuck everything up, don't I?"

"I don't think it was your fault that Ginny got so upset. You being pissed is not exactly _new_ news, you know?"

"I've... I've got to get home."

"Mate, you're really out of it. I bet you don't even know where you're staying; just come with me."

Even as drunk as he was, Harry knew immediately from hearing the words that it was not a good idea to have Ron figure out where he was staying, so straightening his back, Harry tried with little success to act sober. Twenty minutes later, after two attempts to run away from Ron's clutches and four precarious attempts to contact Ginny and Hermione, Harry and his friend Apparated back to The Burrow.

Harry didn't want to sleep. Somewhere deep down he knew as soon as his eyes shut there would be dreams of him and Sirius again, and those memories were not ones he wanted to awaken.

He tried as hard as he could to stay awake, even if that meant his forming-hangover symptoms started to kick in. Ron's snores helped carry in his quest, and when he heard the door open downstairs and the stifled voices of Hermione and Ginny lulled to his ears, Harry couldn't help but feel curious.

"Why didn't you ever tell someone, Ginny? You could have seriously gotten hurt!"

"I would have! I could have! I... I don't usually let people walk all over me, but you have no idea what it's like."

"I can only imagine."

"I hope that's as far as your experience on the topic goes."

There was silence, then—"Do you think he really told the truth? I don't even think he wants to be with me. He's been so… out of it lately. I mean, it's expected after what happened, but still…"

Harry got the odd feeling they were talking about something entirely different now, and his stomach churned unpleasantly.

"I think he's confused about the war and about himself, so the last thing he wants to do is get mixed in with love."

"_Love_, Hermione? _Love of all things?_ That's different. I don't either of us are ready for that, especially him. Do you really know that he… you know."

Another silence.

"I don't know anything anymore."

-.-.-.-

Harry couldn't remember much the next morning. Something hard was pressed between his back and the floor, and with a shuffle he saw that it was his glasses, snapped right at the bridge.

"Wassgoinon?" Ron loomed above him, grinning as he knelt and took Harry's glasses in his large hands and repaired them with a simple spell. "You know it must have been a good night when you don't remember anythin'."

"You don't remember anything either?"

Ron cocked his head slightly. "Well, I don't remember anything from the club, but I do remember Apparating back home."

Harry sat up. Ron's room had been cleaned since he last saw it, which meant that Mrs. Weasley had ran out of thing-a-majigs to polish downstairs and had moved to here. His Chocolate Frog Cards lay stacked in a pile on his desk, and his Chudley Cannons poster seemed so vibrantly orange it made him blink quicker than looking at the sun.

Realization started to dawn on Harry. "I didn't dream last night."

Ron laughed. "I think that's the effect of alcohol. It just knocks you out cold."

"Yeah… yeah, it does. I mean – I haven't dreamt at _all_." Harry blinked faster.

"C'mon, mate. I think Hermione's making breakfast downstairs."

Together, Ron and Harry clambered down the steps of The Burrow to find that Hermione was in fact making breakfast, but instead of her usual eggs-and-toast specialty, there was a whole feast strewn out across the counter. Harry tried to take it all in: flapjacks, muffins, orange juice, cereal, sausages, rolls, and even porridge.

"It's like a whole Hogwarts feast," Harry yawned.

Hermione looked up at them and made a face that was a somewhat strained smile. She had on an apron that made resemble Mrs. Weasley, and her hair was tied back into a loose bun. A few strands had fallen into her face as she cut up a banana.

"I thought we all could use a good start to the day after what happened last night."

"What exactly did happen last night, if I may ask?" Ron joked, fishing a spoon from the drawer and diving into the corn flakes. Hermione smacked his hand away.

"Not so fast, Ron! We have to wait until everyone gets here. And as for what happened last night, I think we all need to have a talk."

"What do you mean?"

Hermione looked down at her cut up banana as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Her breath hitched. "I want to find my parents, Ron."

A blank expression came over his face. "Oh – I mean, yeah. Yeah, of course we should."

"I don't even know if they'll remember me, but I figure now that the war is over I should get to them. Ahh, Ginny! There you are."

Ginny arrived from her room stretching her arms above her head. She was still wearing her dress from last night, smudged makeup painted on her face, and a mop of red hair on her head. Harry leaned down to plant a kiss on her cheek. It lasted less than a second before Ginny pulled casually away to get a cereal bowl.

Feeling confused, Harry stared at her until memories from last night came crashing through his mind, and he could remember it all.

"Ginny – we should, uh – "

"Hermione, you made all my favorites!" she exclaimed through a course voice that was nothing like the silky one she once had. It sounded as if she'd spent the night crying.

Hermione smiled at Ginny, and Harry could see the sincere warmth on her face. He recalled their overhead conversation the night before, and knew from experience that whatever they'd exchanged before arriving was influencing Hermione greatly.

"Is this all for Ginny?" Ron asked, hurt.

"No," Hermione snapped, making a plate for herself and sitting down next to him. "Your fridge just so happens to be stocked with all of Ginny's favorite foods. You know, that tends to happen when she lives here."

Harry, who'd had enough of all the rude evasiveness, pushed back his chair so the sound it made stopped all conversation and left the room just as George entered.

"What's going on?" George asked.

"Nothing," said Harry in return, and he turned his back to leave.

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	4. Recovery

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

**Sorry it took so long for an update, but do you know what I would really love? Yeah, a review.**

There were too many cameras—flickering, snapping, seizure-educing flashes that blinded him with every movement. As he left the Weasley's door, they surrounded him, and soon, he couldn't find his path. Harry, of all people, had never been claustrophobic if you didn't count those rare occasions when the cupboard became a little overwhelming, but the bodies of photographers loomed close around him, forming walls like a prison cell.

A short, plump woman called out to him, "Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived! How does it feel to have saved all of Europe—and possibly the world—from the one and only, Lord Voldemort?"

Another shouted, "Have you heard the death toll, Mr. Potter? Hundreds! Do you feel any remorse or are their lives well spent?"

"Please" Harry often said. Sometimes he tacked "move" onto the end, or flipped it around: "Please move", "Move, please". They didn't do as he asked, and his voice, only just above a whisper, was becoming startlingly hard to use. Harry was not scared—no, of course he wasn't scared of paparazzi—but the weariness he felt dug into his brain. His eyes drooped down, and a bored expression came over him. Why didn't they just leave him alone? Why could they do as he asked? It was surely obvious he had places to be, people to see…

"Have you heard the death toll?" they screamed again, and Harry couldn't hear them anymore. With one shove, he pummeled his way through the crowd, making a gap where he could and was gone in a second.

-.-.-.-.-

It was noon before Harry had calmed down enough to floo the Weasley's from the old lodge fireplace. It was Ron's sad face that answered. It could have been the light, but his eyes looked unnaturally red and puffy, suggesting that he'd been crying for a multitude of plausible reasons. (Harry couldn't blame him. The entire Weasley Gang had adopted a rather disdainfully miserable look to them lately.)

Ron didn't say hello. "'Mione's steamed, mate. I suggest you stay for a while, but I don't think that'll be a difficult, considering." He smirked. "Plus, Andromeda is looking for you. I think you might be forgetting that you're the legal guardian of Teddy now."

"Oh. Yeah. And tell 'Mione I'm really, _really_ sorry?" Ron simply nodded, so Harry continued, "I was wondering if I could talk to Ginny, actually."

"_Oh_," he said pointedly. "I see." It was evident in his voice that he really did see, but probably for all the wrong reasons, and it was even more evident that Ron did not fancy the idea of Harry talking _about_ his sister, much less talking _to_ her. Though it was dreadfully strange and ironic (he'd always been very supportive of their relationship), he stepped aside all the same to allow Ginny access.

She'd showered and changed since their last encounter, and her hair spilled out across her startlingly pale shoulders like a curtain of bright red.

"Hi." She was grimacing, but then again, when wasn't she?

All he'd been planning on saying was suddenly stuck in his throat at the sight of her sad countenance.

"Wotcher, Harry?"

"I—um—"

"Harry?" she asked, her expression detached.

Granted, Harry wasn't and would never be something he, nor Ginny, nor anyone, really, would call charismatic or forthcoming or even remotely charming, so it didn't come to a surprise to Ginny when he blurted, "Are we okay? Are you going to break up with me?"

She gave her answer, and Harry was broken.

"We're fine."

But in this case, "Fine" might have easily been the end.

-.-.-.-

Hermione's parents were lost somewhere in the small town of Tinshire, Australia. That was as much as she knew, because she'd sent them there specifically, and thanks to a few protective charms, they couldn't have gone far. Hermione could remember choosing the place, seeing the tall plants and knowing that _this_ was the place she'd want to die, if anywhere, with the trees looming over her like comforting pillars and the sun poking ever-so-slightly through the canopy.

"I want to come with you," Ron said, just ten minutes prior. He took her hand reassuringly and rubbed soothing circles in the webs, and she barely noticed him with her stomach doing uneasy summersaults. Eventually, though, she gave in, and they Apparated.

Through the plants, the light illuminated golden slivers across his all-too-prominent cheekbones and clashed terribly with the red of his freckles and hair. Hand in hand, they walked down the sidewalk, and Ron, trying to lighten the atmosphere as they searched for the right house, pointed a specific few out and whispered, "That could be ours someday."

Hermione made a noise that was somewhat a giggle but strangled and caught, and when she stopped, it was in front of a small, ivory-colored beach house. It wasn't _bad_, per say, but it wasn't exactly _brilliant_. Its shingles were chipped and broken, the paint job peeling in several areas, and the withering garden left unattended.

"_Oh_!" Hermione gasped, clasping her hands together at her chest, and Ron couldn't help but think it was cute. As if afraid that someone would jump out, they proceeded towards the door cautiously. He took the knob, but she slapped his hand away.

"We knock. This is my parents we're dealing with." Hermione hit the doorbell and waiting as it rang in the otherwise silent area.

A woman answered the door. She had a pointed, angular face and a mane of fair hair. Smiling down at them, her face was warm and inviting, and Hermione resisted the urge to hug the woman she's known to call "Mum", yet looked nothing like her.

"Mrs. Granger," said Hermione sweetly, as if it wasn't her name also. "Do you mind if we come in?"

Mrs. Granger's eyebrows pulled together, and she opened the door a bit more to rest on the threshold. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Oh, don't be… my name is Hermione, and this is my… boyfriend Ronald. We were wondering if we could talk about something important. It seems we're… related."

The door opened just a bit more.

"Related," she repeated. "How so?"

"Please, if we could just explain inside, I'm sure that it will all be better soon."

Looking reluctant to let strangers into her home, Mrs. Granger pulled open the door completely and made way.

-.-.-.-.-

Andromeda had beautiful hair, light brown and flowing, but her face reminded Harry so much of Bellatrix he found it hard to look at her, so instead he stared at his shoes, at the tiny focal point above her head, and at little Ted Lupin, who was snoring soundly in his lap, fingers curled possessively in Harry's shirt.

"Such a beautiful lad," she crooned, and stroked Teddy's now-fuchsia tresses. She then looked up to meet his eyes, and Harry noticed that hers were warm and chocolate colored, not at all like Bellatrix's. Andromeda, though baring a striking resemblance to her sister, held her neck in a more graceful manner, her lips curving just-so in a way that emanated sincerity instead of bitter insanity. "How are you feeling, Harry, darling?"

"Nothing unmanageable. The first day was hard… I think I might have lost it for a moment, but I feel a lot more stable now, Mrs. Tonks. In fact, I feel I should be asking you that." Harry's voice was unnaturally formal. He'd never really gotten to know Andromeda, and now they were forced into a situation so unthinkable he'd hardly believed it.

She nodded. "It's… horrible around here, I'm not going to lie to you, dear. There's pictures of our daughter everywhere… but I think we'll be fine. She died a warrior's death, and we're so very proud. And please, call me Andromeda."

Harry sunk deeper into the floral couch upon which he sat, and in his arms, Teddy stirred.

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes flew open. "Oh for what, dear? Not for Dora's demise, I'm sure! You must know that none of this is your fault!"

"It is, though," Harry protested, and felt the stirring rising in his chest he hadn't undergone since his fifth year. "All Voldemort wanted was me, and I waited so long to give him that… it's partially the reason why I went. I mean, if I wasn't a horcrux, I'd have still gone to meet him."

Andromeda's finger fluttered against the side of his face. Much smoother than Bellatrix's too, he thought and immediately banished from his head. If he was going to be around her this much for Teddy's sake, then he'd have to stop comparing her to a Death Eater.

"Oh, Harry. One day you're going to have to come to terms with the fact you couldn't have done anything. Sometimes things are out of our reach, and it's no one's fault but Voldemort's."

"I have to go back to my seventh year at Hogwarts, though, so what about when the summer ends? Will it be okay if Teddy stays here? I mean, I'll come for the breaks and stuff..."

"Haven't you heard?" Andromeda asked. "Shaklebolt is the new Minister of Magic, and he's declared that any student who fought in the war does not have to go back to school. It's like, immediate graduation they say. That includes you—of course, if you wished to go back, you could always do that." She looked at him warily, knowing the probability of that was unlikely. "Now all you have to do is find a job. Any that you've been considering?"

Harry admitted, "Auror."

She nodded. Harry smiled, and Teddy stirred in his arms again. Silently, he handed him back to his grandmother.

"You're not old enough to take care of a child, and Merlin knows that you have enough going on, so why don't we start off slow? Ted and I are plenty happy to take care of him for most of the week."

"I'd love to take him, too."

"How about you can have him over the weekends, then? Is that alright?"

"Wonderful," Harry said, and kissed Andromeda on the cheek goodbye.

Outside, Harry fought his way through a parting crowd of reporters, blindly grabbing for someone to shove aside. When he erupted into an open area once again, he found himself in front of the door to the lodge and opened the door to find that there were people already inside – Ron and Hermione, who was sobbing uncontrollably, and two very dazed looking adults.

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